


Monster

by Glendaa



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF, Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types, Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: Anal Fingering, Angst, Getting Darker, Harness, M/M, Masturbation, Phone Sex, Strained Relationships, golden globes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-09
Updated: 2019-01-09
Packaged: 2019-10-07 06:14:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17360552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glendaa/pseuds/Glendaa
Summary: My take on Armie’s extended ‘vacation’ at the Caymans and Timothée’s dazzling appearance at the Golden Globes.As soon as I saw the harness I thought ‘sexy!’ and ‘wonder what Armie thought’. Scorching hot smut came to mind and I started to write but – this came out instead.Sorry!





	Monster

**Author's Note:**

> CAUTION This is basically angst-fest on steroids, getting darker while it progresses. No fluff. Sorry. Written wildly and unbeta’d.
> 
> PS I like Elizabeth irl, but here she’s a bitch. Y’all please remember that this is fic. Don’t hate on anyone irl (or me for writing her like this, please)
> 
> Thanks to BarkingBard for reigniting a love of darker things in fic ;-)

 

He needs to talk to him.

He needs to say ‘I’m sorry, please forgive me’.

He knows he won’t do it.

If he goes down that route, he will break further and end up sobbing on the phone. He can’t do that. He won’t ruin the holidays of his precious boy. _Is he still mine?_ He shivers - fucking mind of his, always conjuring the worst outcome ever. He feels raw and scorched and vulnerable like a lobster lying on a bed of iceberg. Fucking sushi - he has eaten too much of that slimy stuff, useful only to feed stingrays, who then try to climb all over him making Harper giggle. He’s a meat and potatoes guy. But Elizabeth loves sushi, so he eats it as well, wishing it was a greasy hamburger in Hell’s kitchen instead.

 

~

 

He needs to talk to him.

He needs to hear his voice, to listen to his excited chatter.

He needs to know everything’s still good between them.

It is not, he knows it. It’s not like before. But he’s unable to even imagine Tim out of his life. So he calls him. No FaceTime. He can’t possibly look at his face right now. He doesn’t want to see annoyance or contempt in his bright jade gaze or, worse, sadness. The idea of hurting him kills him. And yet he does it. Every time.

“Hey” is the answer he receives.

 _So he still answers my calls, after all_. He fidgets, in silence.

“Arms?”

He takes a deep breath and lashes out. “What the Hell where you thinking? Mr. Always Stylish, my ass! You gave me the hardest time when I chose a turtleneck and you wear a fucking sweater with two head holes? Wait, or was it a vent for stinky armpits? Seriously? And why on earth would you wear a basic nude t-shirt under that monstrosity? It looked like Grampa trying too hard to keep up with fashion. At least you could have gone bare-chested and-” He stops, the sudden idea of Timothée’s naked skin peeping from the hole assuming a totally different connotation. If he had been there, with him, he would have hugged him from behind, hard dick pressing on his ass, and slid his hand inside the blessed opening and grazed his left nipple and- _fuck_. He inhales and exhales slowly, trying to regain control of his train of thoughts. _Please, Tim, please, say something. Banter with me. Please Tim. Please._

He hears a snort from the other side. His shoulders relax a bit.

If Tim’s read between the lines - and he knows he has, that boy’s a fucking magical creature that knows him better than himself - and he’s allowing this, it means he’s not done with him yet. _Bless the Gods._

“It’s called a fashion statement, old man. But how should you know, right? The turtleneck! How dare you, Mister 70s mafia guy, compare it to my gorgeous Raf Simons sweater? Have you seen the glittery blue thread? Why do I even lose my time trying to explain contemporary fashion to you?”

He giggles. No one is fooled, tension is still there but if they can still do this, they still have a chance. Still is the key-word. However tiny and slippery, he will grab it as strongly as he can.

“Are you watching the Globes?”, Tim asks and BAM – reality is back.

“Don’t know”, he whispers.

“You should watch it”.

“Who’s your plus one?” He wants to know and wants to not know and hopes the name is not what he imagines it might be, actually what it should be seeing that-

“Armie-”

“I know, I know. None of my business”. His voice is harsher than he wants it to be. He feels ashamed, but the bitterness is too strong to hide. He’s always been a selfish prick.

He hears a sigh.

“You go and have fun, Tim, please don’t mind this grumpy old man who knows nothing about cutting-edge glittery holey sweaters”

“Tell me you’ll watch it”.

“Elizabeth won’t miss it”, he growls. _Please don’t make me look at you with a slim blonde under your arm. With Elizabeth checking on my every reaction. Please Tim._

“I know you’ll watch it”. HIs voice is deep and steady.

Armie knows it means ‘I want you to watch me. I command you to’. He knows he will do as ordered. And it will be bad. He tries to find something to say, but Tim has already gone.

 

_______________

 

“Oh, look. He’s with his mother again”. Elizabeth’s sirupy voice has an annoyed tinge to it. “It was cute last year, very awkward teenager style, but wouldn’t it be time to stop this façade? I mean, Leo is Italian, they are all momma’s boys so it’s understandable if sorta creepy, but Timmy should know better, right?”

His skin crawls at her ‘Timmy’ but he nods nonchalantly. His boy is with Nicole and Armie’s too focused on not showing his elation. But then the frame opens - he takes in Timothée, fully, and struggles to breathe.

 _What the fuck is he wearing? Is that a harness?_ He almost chokes on his saliva. He knows his eyes are bulging out of his sockets _I must look as a crazy cartoon_ but he can’t help it.

Elizabeth smirks gleefully. “Look at him. He’s all grown up now. No baby cheeks in sight anymore”. She seems happy, he looks at her without comprehending.

Then it hits him. She’s always been so scared of getting old, perceiving time as the major enemy, looking for threats in any young people approaching him. As if he gave a fuck about that Hollywood nonsense. She recently had a fit of jealousy when a few twenty-somethings in tiny bikinis had asked for a photo. It still boggled his mind that he had fans who genuinely liked his work. Girls especially – they loved Call me by your name with a ferocity that still astonished him after all this time. He was glad to pose with them and while Elizabeth was fuming – poor thing doesn’t understand a thing – the idea of fucking them was the farthest on his mind. His basic instinct was to kiss them on the forehead and pat their hair. He perceived them as older Harpers, nothing more.

She thinks I fell hard for Tim because he was such a sweet, young thing. He shakes his head, bitter smile on his lips. And now… _well, fuck me_ , what is he now?

He cannot unglue his eyes from the screen. That must be Virgil Abloh’s doing, the fucking genius at Louis Vuitton, the man responsible for the whole embroidered bib success. He’s done it again, this time even better.

He tries to focus on the harness, a bejewled thing of beauty. Glimmering black and purple would look devine against Timothée’s naked skin and he knows that’s exactly what everybody is thinking. Men are staring. Women are staring. _I get you_ , he thinks. He doesn’t even care about the silly interviewer, Nicole deflects bullshit like a proud mama bear.

He tries to focus on his dark collar-shirt. It makes him look like a hot priest, he had seen some in Southern Italy. _Forgive me, Father, because I have sinned. And planning to do it again, as soon as possible._

He tries to focus on his graceful fingers adorned with rings that he knows will sparkle speculations - left hand, right hand? dom or sub? a giver a taker a versatile or- He tries to focus on his tiny waist and svelte legs in slightly cropped trousers. He tries, and fails miserably.

His smolder calls him like a moth to a flame. He is royally fucked.

 _Where is my boy?,_ he lets out a strangled moan that makes Elizabeth cackle. _Who is this vision?_

He has to force himself to remember that he knew him when he was a shy actor at the beginning of his career. That he once stepped on his feet because the stone that paved the villa’s garden was too hot. That he frequently goofed around on set as a kid high on sugar. That he exhaled his name multiple times when he had fingered him slowly in order to finally, finally…

Gosh, he had seen his childhood pictures, he had met his mother! _Then why does he look so preternatural?_ He’s magnificent and powerful. A mesmerizing vampire set to destroy, an ancient witch able to bespell every living creature, a seductive male Salome demanding death. A monster.

He breathes slowly in order to steady himself. His knees are trying to give out and he’s glad his parents are putting the kids to bed so that if he crumples on the floor it will only be Elizabeth the one who sees his demise. She’s harsh, but not as cruel as his mother would be.

Tim’s eyes have a ‘I dare you’ quality that’s so dominant it makes him want to fall on his knees, crawl to him and kiss his shiny black shoes. He feels tears threatening to spring at the corner of his eyes, he swallows audibly trying to block them.

“Tell me you’ll watch it”, he had said. “I know you’ll watch it”.

_Fuck, Tim, Have mercy. You win. I’m putty in your hands._

Tim has not betrayed him. He has gone to the awards with his mother – his way of saying ‘There’s no significant other I want with me now’. And yet he has destroyed him, with his look – his way of saying ‘You don’t owe me, I can have everyone I choose’.

Armie regrets the loss of innocence - the song of experience is luring Tim away from Elio every passing day and he, with his Oliver’s life, cannot keep up. A part of him wishes he could keep him forever, a beautiful butterfly pinned on slick velvet. And yet he revels in his growth, seeing his boy flourish is such a joy. His heart is breaking in the effort of reconciling the two stances. His mental health, he fears, is already gone.

He shivers under the scrutiny of Tim’s gaze from afar. _I had it all wrong. It’s me the pinned butterfly!_ He now fears he might be the first specimen in Timothée’s amorous collection. The thought repels him and yet… the first is still the first, right? Has a special connotation, right? Even in a sumptuous Wunderkammer filled with erotic experiences and feelings of love, right?

He needs to see him, hold him, discern if his mind is playing tricks on him or- _How could things change so fast?_

He runs to the bathroom and starts to sob as soon as he enters. He wants to throw up, his shoulders heave. His throat is too dry, he needs a scotch asap.

_Tim. Tim. Tim._

His hand slithers in his shorts and he starts to stroke himself angrily. His hand goes to the bottle of conditioner on the shelf but stops. He needs the pain right now. He forces a finger in, then two, no lube, no spit. He muffles his cry biting his lower lip. He draws blood. He’s aching so bad.

_Tim. Tim. Tim._

The boy, no, the man is everywhere. In the glittering harness, in the ugly sweater - he’s here in the fucking luxurious bathroom at the end of the fucking hallway of this fucking Cayman rental.

Sweat on his furrowed brows, he comes painting the door with his seed. He takes a pic of it, wants to send it, changes idea. Decides on a shot of his pained face, crazed eyes, panting mouth.

 

The boy’s probably happily dancing the night away. But the monster will be glad to see his annihilation.


End file.
